


Both Ways

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Drinking to Cope, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nonnies Made Me Do It, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Protectiveness, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 08:25:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18069959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: As far as Peter knows, he escaped Titan with barely a scratch, and Thanos was defeated before they even got home. But for some reason, Mr. Stark is being very weird about the whole thing…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Для нас двоих](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19475584) by [acerbicapplecoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acerbicapplecoffee/pseuds/acerbicapplecoffee)



> Inspired by this prompt: _Post un-snappening, Tony is still so fucked up from watching Peter/half the universe die that he majorly spirals. Panic attacks, alcohol, overwork — the whole deal. Peter, who's never seen him anywhere close to like this is shaken, has to figure out how to react/help._ Originally posted [here](https://fail-fandomanon.dreamwidth.org/344797.html?thread=2012398557#cmt2012398557), but it’s been cleaned up and I made the ending better, I think. 
> 
> I took that prompt, combined it with the premise that only the Avengers who survived the snap remember it after it’s fixed, and here we are. As is maybe becoming cliché from me, there’s a lot of angst before the happy ending here. But hey, at least they’re both [alive for the whole fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15247008/chapters/35364504) this time!
> 
> Chose Not to Warn because it's underage but not explicit, and there’s violence that may or may not qualify as graphic enough to merit the warning, depending on your temperament.

The world goes fuzzy right around the time Thanos disappears from Titan. Or maybe it’s just Peter’s memory that’s shorted out, it’s hard to tell.  
  
All he knows for sure is he remembers watching from too far to help as the monster took swipe after massive swipe at Mr. Stark, spearing him so brutally Peter was sure he’d die. He remembers the sound of his own scream, his desperate scramble to get back, to somehow help while also protecting bug girl and Star-Lord and the grey guy. He remembers the universe splitting open into a gaping wound, and Thanos disappearing into it.  
  
After that — no. No idea. Just, fuzzy. And now here he is, back at the scene of the fight. It’s disturbingly disorienting, but at least everyone seems to be okay. And Team Aliens is staggering around looking as bewildered as he feels, so he’s probably not going crazy. Maybe it’s a side effect of Thanos’s reality bending, a blip in the timeline caused by the sudden retreat.  
  
On the other hand, not  _everyone_  looks out of it. The awesome blue cyborg lady is standing perfectly still, watching them dispassionately; but she’s a cyborg, so maybe she doesn’t do confusion. Doctor Strange, perched on a rock, is smiling in a distant, knowing way, but he’s always like that, so whatever.  
  
And Mr. Stark — he doesn’t look disoriented at all. Instead, he’s staring at Peter with eyes so wild and hungry it makes him stop in his tracks, heart skipping a beat.  
  
“Sir?” he hears himself say.  
  
Before he can catch up to what’s happening, his mentor is on him, pulling him into a tight hug, whispering  _you’re okay, you’re okay,_ into his hair like some kind of chant.  
  
“You’re the one who was stabbed in the gut,” he points out with a confused laugh, but he accepts the hug, squeezing back, careful not to pull too tight. It would be pretty ironic if Mr. Stark survived a big fight with an insane alien just for Peter to accidentally break his ribs. “Are  _you_  okay?”  
  
“Oh, I’m fine, kid.” Mr. Stark breaks the embrace to pull back and show Peter that, somehow, he really is fine. There’s no sign that he’d been jabbed through the stomach just minutes ago.  
  
“How…?”  
  
“The Grand Houdini over there made a very bad bargain.” He pauses, pensive. “Though I guess it worked out. In the end, anyway.”  
  
That seems like an odd thing to say, but before Peter can ask what he means, Star-Lord interrupts, demanding to know what the hell happened, and where the hell is Thanos, and does anyone else’s head really hurt all of a sudden? From there, everything tumbles downhill into a whirlwind of outrage and accusations and plans, and within half an hour they’re piling into the alien gang’s ship, headed home.  
  
“So we’re sure Thanos is on Earth?” Star-Lord asks as he slips into the pilot’s seat — he’s  _so cool_ , even if he does have bad taste in movies — and begins to set a course. “Because I really need to strangle him to death with my bare hands.”  
  
“Something like that,” Mr. Stark responds.  
  
Honestly, that seems like a pretty weird thing to say, too. But in the relief of having survived his first battle against a  _real_  villain — as an Avenger! In space! — Peter doesn’t dwell on it.

***

When Star-Lord tells them they’ll have to share rooms, Mr. Stark immediately declares, “Boy Wonder is with me.” He adds a quip about how he’s the only one he trusts not to snore, but Peter didn’t miss the odd intensity of it, the way he almost seems glad to have an excuse to stay close. He doesn’t leave Peter’s side as the ragtag, grumpy group attempts to negotiate sharing the not-quite-large-enough space — a constant shadow, hands grazing his shoulders, cupping his neck, falling along the small of his back.  
  
Dinner — if it is dinner; time’s a little unclear when everything is stars, but Peter’s tired, so dinner sounds right — is an orangeish mush served in dented metal bowls. It’s not exactly appetizing, but he’s too hungry to do anything but shovel it into his mouth, ignoring the way the odd blend of nut and tang tastes subtly off. Besides, even if it’s kind of gross, it’s  _alien food_ , so that’s awesome.

Mr. Stark, crammed next to him at the tight table, leg brushing his, doesn’t seem to feel the same way. He pushes the goop around his bowl, eyes rarely leaving Peter. The focus makes his face burn; he probably has a ridiculous blush.  
  
“Are you  _sure_  you’re okay?” he whispers, gesturing at the full bowl. He mostly wants to get those eyes off of him, doesn’t know how to handle the goosebumps they send up his arms.  
  
“Yeah, great,” Mr. Stark replies, unconvincingly, not even looking down at his food. “Just not hungry.”  
  
“After all that? How’s that possible?” It occurs to him Mr. Stark might be embarrassed to admit he doesn’t want to eat the mush, so he adds, “This stuff really isn’t so bad.”  
  
Mr. Stark seems to contemplate this seriously, glancing from Peter to his bowl and back several times. “It would be strange if I wasn’t hungry, wouldn’t it?” he finally agrees. “I guess I’ll have to brave it.” With a wince, he takes a few bites.  
  
Yeah, okay. So, he’s definitely being weird. But hey, it’s been a weird day.

***

By the time they finish dinner, Peter’s ready to collapse. The adrenaline of the fight and the excitement of yet another spaceship have drained from his body, leaving him feeling like a loose collection of bones in skin, muscles so weary he can barely stand. Their room, they discover, is small, clearly not used very much. Two uncomfortable looking metal beds are stacked on top of each other against one wall.   
  
Without needing to ask, Peter climbs into the top bunk and flops onto his stomach, wriggling his suit off until it’s gathered around his waist. There’s nothing else to wear, so that’ll have to do for pajamas.  
  
“‘t’s like a sleepover,” he mumbles sleepily into his pillow, eyes falling closed. “Did you do sleepovers?”  
  
He can hear Mr. Stark approach his bed, and then, with a jolt, feels a hand on his head, stroking his hair. “Mm, not really. I assume the food is normally better.”  
  
He slits his eyes open. Mr. Stark’s face is almost level with his, expression hard to read: fond and frightened, all in one.  
  
“You haven’t had May’s meatloaf,” he replies, forcing his tired muscles into a grin. “This was okay.”  
  
Mr. Stark smiles back, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m very glad you’re alive, Peter,” he says, so soft it’s almost like he doesn’t mean for Peter to really hear it, though of course he does, as clearly as if it had been shouted through a megaphone.  
  
“Uh, thanks. Same.” His exhausted brain starts to pull at the threads of the evening, and the explanation for Mr. Stark’s odd behavior hazily comes together, stupidly obvious now that he thinks of it. “Sorry if you were worried. Shouldn’t have followed you onto the ship.”  
  
If Peter thought Mr. Stark’s expression was hard to read before, his reaction now is totally incomprehensible: a cringe like he’s been punched, followed by a hoarse laugh.   
  
“Oh, kid. No, you shouldn’t have.” He sounds hollow. “But here you are, alive. All’s well that ends well, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” Peter agrees, feeling his grasp on consciousness slipping, the comfort of the hand on his hair leading him off to sleep. “Mmhmm. Shakespeare said.”  
  
He feels a squeeze on his shoulder, hears the slight rustle of the mattress below his, and after that, blissful nothingness.

***

He jolts awake, panic gripping him. It takes a few seconds for his mind to catch up with his senses, to register why his heart is racing, his body tense, ready to spring: Mr. Stark is yelling.

He rolls out of bed, struggling and failing to pull his suit back up before he lands in a crouch, prepared for the fight. But after a confused moment of scanning the room for a threat, he realizes there’s nothing there. Just Mr. Stark, asleep, gripped by a nightmare.  
  
“ _No_ ,” he pleads, arms twitching like he might be trying to grab something. His heart is racing triple speed, the sound filling the room, a deafening drumbeat, the only thing Peter can focus on. “No, please, not him—”  
  
In an instant Peter is by his side, shouting his name, shaking him awake. “It’s a dream, it’s a dream,” he urges, tugging at his shirt, pulling him to sitting. With a gasp Mr. Stark’s eyes fly open, his arms reach out. He clutches desperately at Peter’s hair, his back, his face, radiating confusion and distress as he strokes his cheeks and smooths his bangs.  
  
“You’re here,” he pants, running trembling fingers over his bare chest and shoulders, as if astonished by his presence. “You’re here, you’re okay, you’re here.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Peter insists, disoriented by the onslaught. He catches the other man’s hands in his own, holding them firm and still between them, not really sure what he’s supposed to do. “I’m totally fine,” he repeats. “Barely a scratch.”  
  
Mr. Stark lets out a barking laugh and collapses forward, head resting on Peter’s shoulder as he heaves, struggling to catch his breath. Awkwardly, Peter wraps an arm around him, patting his back.  
  
They stay like that for what feels like forever, Mr. Stark shaking in his arms, heartrate slowly dropping closer to normal. Peter’s pretty sure he feels a wetness which must be tears on his shoulder, but he doesn’t comment, just keeps rubbing circles on Mr. Stark’s back like May used to do when he was home sick. This, he decides, is definitely really fucking weird.  
  
Finally, Mr. Stark raises his head, wiping his eyes. He does a double take when his gaze lands on Peter’s face, as if it’s just occurred to him who exactly he’s been clinging to.  
  
“I’m sorry, Pete,” he says, grabbing a corner of his blanket and dabbing at Peter’s wet shoulder. “Sorry, I shouldn’t—I’m pretty sure this is very bad mentor etiquette. They don’t give out a handbook, but if they did, this would probably be first on the ‘Do Nots’ list.”  
  
He’s rambling, his favorite distraction technique. Which — fair. If the roles were reversed, Peter would be doing everything he could to distract. He likes to think they’ve gotten close in the last year or so, lab time and training sessions and sometimes, occasionally, just eating dinner in front of a movie, but they aren’t sharing-total-breakdown close. Weren’t, anyway.   
  
“It’s fine,” Peter assures him. And it is, mostly. Okay, yeah, he doesn’t really know what to do with this moment, how to slot it into his picture of Mr. Stark as the guy who always has it together even when he’s pretending he doesn’t. But — hey, he  _did_  have a moon thrown at him by a genocidal alien a few hours ago. Everyone has a limit, even superheroes. That makes sense. So it is fine. Totally fine. “We’re good. I’m good.”  
  
Mr. Stark still looks a little like he’s seen a ghost, but he pats Peter’s arm, giving him a weak smile. “I don’t deserve you, kid.”  
  
“I don’t know about that.” Peter stands before things can get any weirder. Mr. Stark had been treating him almost like an equal, like part of the team, and he doesn’t want that to change; the last thing they need is to disrupt the trust they’ve built right as they’re rushing back to Earth for the real fight against Thanos. “You took me to an alien planet.  _I’d_  call that A-plus, top notch superhero mentoring. Ned’s not gonna  _believe_  it.”  
  
“Yeah,” Mr. Stark mutters, rubbing his eyes against the heel of his palm. “Yeah, I did do that. One day I might even forgive myself for it.” He sighs. “Go back to sleep, kid. Big day tomorrow.”  
  
Peter’s still not really sure what to make of any of it, but now that he lets himself concentrate on his own body he realizes his head is throbbing, and exhaustion clings to the back of his eyes, so he leaps onto his bed without protest. Once they get home it’ll be fine, he tells himself as he lays down. It’s just been a long day.

***

When they get back to Earth, Thanos is already defeated.   
  
The battle hadn’t been without losses. Hundreds of Wakandan soldiers apparently went down in the fight, and Vision. That one stings. Peter had met the gentle android a few times around the compound. He’d always been kind and patient, willing to answer his questions; once, he’d even helped him with his physics homework while Mr. Stark was busy on a business call.   
  
But compared to what he’d expected — whole cities destroyed, the Avengers battling for their lives — it seems strangely anticlimactic. In a good way, obviously in a good way. But still. He’d braced for the apocalypse, but this barely seems worse than the Attack on New York.   
  
He shares the thought with Mr. Stark as they sit side-by-side in the medical wing of the compound, waiting for confirmation that they haven’t brought some alien parasite back with them from Titan. He responds with the same hollow laugh he’d had on the ship.  
  
“It’s always the end of the world until it’s not,” he explains. He reaches over and cups the back of Peter’s neck. “That’s what this job is, one almost-apocalypse after another. Hopefully you never have to see the real thing. We. Any of us, I mean.”  
  
Peter nods, trying to concentrate on anything other than the heavy weight of Mr. Stark’s hand at his neck. “I just wish I could’ve helped more.”  
  
“You did plenty.” Mr. Stark suddenly ruffles his hair and then pulls his hand away. “But how about we keep you closer to the ground for a bit longer? Back to being a friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man? It’d help me sleep better at night.”  
  
He winks, and Peter can feel himself smiling back. That’s the man he knows: confident, joking, acknowledging and moving past the awkwardness of last night in an instant. Things are starting to settle back into place.  
  
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, I can stick to the friendly neighborhood thing.”

***

As it turns out, he can’t even do that much, because he’s grounded for the rest of the school year. Grounded-grounded. May-took-away-the-suit grounded, which is a whole new level of punishment he hadn’t even known was possible.   
  
“And I called Tony Stark and told him that if he gives you another one in the meantime, I will personally murder him, so don’t even try it,” she’d warned him on his first night home, but not before pulling him into the longest hug of his life. And after the lecture she’d let him pick the delivery place, so he knows that under the anger she’s mostly just relieved he’s okay.   
  
“This sucks,” he complains to Ned, jabbing forlornly at his tater-tots. It’s only been a week, but he’s already itching to get back on the street. He misses the thrill of swinging through the city so much he’s considered digging up his old, pre-Stark suit, but he’s pretty sure it won’t fit anymore. Besides, May might actually lock him in his room for the rest of his life if she found out.   
  
“Yeah, but totally worth it. You went to an  _alien planet_ , dude!” This has been Ned’s constant refrain, and it never fails to make Peter feel a little better because yeah, he did, and that’s pretty cool. “Besides, she’s still letting you go to the lab this weekend, right?”  
  
Peter nods. Mr. Stark had been smart enough to call May directly to ask for permission. She likes when he does that. Apparently — as Peter learned by listening in on the conversation from his room — he has some upgrades to the suit he wants to go over, and he made it very,  _very_  clear he understands Peter can’t take the new suit home yet. But what better time for improvements, right? “May, I just want to make him as safe as possible, and I can’t do that without having him test it out. He won’t leave the lab.” To Peter’s surprise, the line worked.  
  
“Yeah, I’m going on Saturday.”  
  
“So, that’ll be cool. You like the lab.” When Peter just nods listlessly again, Ned pokes him. “Dude, what’s up? Did you have another nightmare?”  
  
The answer is yes, he did. It’s beginning to be a routine, and he’s not a fan.   
  
They’d started his second night back, and haven’t let up. Always the same theme: Titan. Sometimes he sees Mr. Stark stabbed, but unlike in real life he doesn’t get back up, just falls and bleeds out, gasping for help as Peter struggles to get closer, never quite able to reach him no matter how fast he swings. Other times he has to watch, helpless, frozen, as Thanos crushes the skulls of the rest of the team in his giant hands, one-by-one, easy, as if they’re eggshells.   
  
But in the worst nightmares, the most vivid ones, Thanos isn’t there at all. Instead, the horror is in seeing everyone else melt to dust and fly away on the wind, only to feel himself starting to disappear, too. It’s not painful, exactly, but deeply frightening, his very being broken apart. Every time, he falls into Mr. Stark’s arms; the distress on his mentor’s face is always the last thing he sees before he snaps awake, heart racing, palms sweating, gasping for air. He can never fall back asleep, not after those dreams.  
  
He doesn’t feel like rehashing it again, so he shakes his head. “Nah,” he lies. “I’m just annoyed about being grounded. But you’re right, the lab will be good.”  
  
Maybe he’ll even work up the courage to ask Mr. Stark how superheroes get any sleep. 

***

By the time Saturday arrives he’s dying to get to the compound, can barely sit still as he’s driven upstate, much to Happy’s annoyance (“Jeez, kid, calm down. Take a Xanax or something and stop bothering me”). He’s been going crazy shuttling between school and home and nothing else; at least in the lab he’ll get to put his suit back on. He’s hoping Mr. Stark will bend his promise to May enough to let him go to the gym, which is basically an arena, with soaring ceilings and more than enough room to swing around.   
  
As soon as they arrive he bounds out of the car and springs up the compound steps, ignoring Happy’s frustrated protests. He has security clearance, and besides, Mr. Stark normally waits for him in the lobby, or sometimes he has Ms. Potts say hello if he’s busy. But apparently not today; when he gets inside there’s no one there to greet him. Huh. Maybe Mr. Stark lost track of time.   
  
“Hello Peter,” comes F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s comforting Irish lilt. “Welcome back. Mr. Stark is in the second floor lab. You’re free to join him.”  
  
Okay, or maybe he’s been moved into the category of people who don’t need an in-person hello. Which maybe is cool? A sign he belongs here? He doesn’t waste time worrying about it as he rushes to the lab.   
  
When he skids into the open work space, Mr. Stark, bent intently over an Iron Man arm, waves him over without looking up.  
  
“Good timing, I need your help. Hold those together,” he instructs, pointing to two pieces of wire lodged deep in the robotics. Peter does as told, watching, interested but a little bemused — even, if he’s being really honest, slightly hurt — as Mr. Stark fuses the wires together with a blowtorch. At some point in the last year they’d realized Peter’s small hands and enhanced resiliency make him a perfect assistant for exactly this kind of delicate but dangerous lab work. He likes it, likes being useful. But normally he at least gets a hello first.   
  
When he’s done, Mr. Stark pulls off his protective glasses and glances up. He looks tired, pale and a little gaunt, eyes red around the edges. But then he grins, and his whole face turns bright, alive with an infectious energy that leaves Peter feeling giddy and warm, and less insulted about the lack of welcome.   
  
“Great work, kid. I should keep you around all the time.” He stands, striding toward the other end of the lab, where a display case stands, doors sealed. “Ready to see your new suits?”  
  
Peter eagerly dashes to catch up. “Wait,  _suits_ , as in plural?”  
  
“Look at you, not missing a beat. I always said you were smart. Fri, the grand reveal?”  
  
With a mechanical buzz the doors slide open to reveal not just two but  _three_  suits: a new version of the Iron Spider gear, and two variations on his regular suit. One’s in the familiar blue and red, and the other is solid black, the Spider-Man symbol barely visible in raised embroidery across the front.   
  
They’re really, incredibly amazing — the black one is  _badass_  — and he can practically taste how much he wants to try them on, to test out whatever new features Mr. Stark has installed, to say hi to Karen, whose reassuring companionship he’s missed. But at the same time —   
  
“You made three suits in under two weeks?”  
  
Mr. Stark nods enthusiastically, barely containing a smug smile as he looks his creations over. “I had some of the ideas bouncing around in my head for a while, but, yeah. Pretty impressive, right?”  
  
“That...seems like a lot.” Peter can’t quite put a finger on why it bothers him. He should be grateful. He  _is_  grateful. But spending what must have been days making a bunch of suits for someone who can’t even use them for another two months doesn’t seem like a normal way to celebrate preventing the apocalypse.   
  
Mr. Stark doesn’t respond to the comment. Instead, he launches into a rundown of the upgrades, darting from suit to suit like an excited kid, jumping between new features seemingly at random, speeding through his explanations of the science behind them so quickly Peter can barely keep up. More flexible fabric here, bulletproof lining there, enhanced stealth mode, flame webs (“Sir, I don’t need flame webs!”), insulation against cold, against heat, against heavy objects flying hundreds of miles an hour out of the sky —   
  
“Mr. Stark!” Peter finally cuts in, head spinning. His mentor stops and looks at him, surprised, and Peter can see his hands are shaking a little, can hear his heart racing, loudly. “This is all very cool, but can you slow down?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, of course. Sorry, I got a little overexcited there. Let’s get you into one of these, shall we?” He turns back to the suits, considering. “I guess it makes sense to start with Spider-Man classic.”  
  
Peter is used to stripping down in the lab to try out new suit adjustments, so he’s out of his clothes and into the new suit in under a minute. It fits perfectly, no surprise there, and it’s somehow even more comfortable than the original, flexible and so thin it barely feels like wearing anything at all.  
  
“This is great,” he says, pulling on the mask, which lights up immediately. “Hi Karen! Miss me?”  
  
“Very much,” comes the familiar voice in his ear. “How have you been?”  
  
As he updates her about being grounded, his upcoming history test, and the latest school gossip — she always seems to get a kick out of that — Mr. Stark gestures for him to take various poses, moving this way and that, showing off how the suit stretches and bends with his body. He’s practiced at this routine, and follows the silent directions automatically, barely noticing what’s happening until he feels Mr. Stark’s hand on his chest, warm and firm, fingers spread wide. He immediately stills, cutting off his conversation with Karen. This is new.  
  
“Arms out, legs open,” he’s instructed, and he obeys instinctively. Then, without warning, Mr. Stark’s hands are running over his arms and down his sides, fingers just barely grazing the suit, but it’s enough to make his muscles tense and twitch under the touch, entire body suddenly heated.   
  
“Uh, sir?” he asks, but Mr. Stark is absorbed in his task, tugging bits of the suit this way and that, palms flattening as he runs his hands up Peter’s back and around his shoulders, sending goosebumps down his arms. This close, it’s impossible to miss that his black tank is stained and wrinkled, as if it hasn’t been washed in days, or that there’s a faint smell of alcohol on his breath. “What—”   
  
Mr. Stark brings his hands to rest on the side of Peter’s arms. “Almost perfect. Just a few more adjustments.”  
  
“I think it’s fine, it’s really great,” Peter argues. “Really, you’ve done enough.”  
  
In response, Mr. Stark does something he’s never done before: he grabs the edge of Peter’s mask and lifts it off. It’s a strangely intimate gesture, and that’s before his hand lands on the back of Peter’s neck. Again. He’s been doing that a lot, lately.   
  
“Kid,” he says, fixing him with a stern look. “From now on, fine isn’t enough. Great isn’t enough. Everything you get from me is going to be perfect. My very best. Better than best. The Peter Parker special.”  
  
“I—okay?” His heart thumps wildly, instincts torn between ducking away and leaning into the touch; he’s having a hard time figuring out what to say, or maybe do, in response to — well, any of it.   
  
He’s spared saying anything by Mr. Stark, who grabs his chin, turning his face from side to side. “You look exhausted,” he observes, disapproving.   
  
Yeah, that’s no surprise. The nightmares haven’t let up at all. He’d been thinking about mentioning it, but it seems like Mr. Stark is worried about him enough as it is, so he just huffs, “Look who’s talking.”  
  
The hand on his chin tightens, and for a moment, he thinks he’s gone too far, that it might start an argument, but then Mr. Stark drops his grip and pulls back.

“Fair point,” he says, turning to the other suits. “So, which one do you want to try next?”  
  
Peter gestures at the Iron Spider at random, too dazed to really care. If this is all because he snuck onto that ship, maybe Ned’s wrong. Maybe it wasn’t worth it after all.


	2. Chapter 2

Three days after the visit to the lab, Mr. Stark does something even stranger than everything else: he texts Peter.   
  
Texting is just not a thing they do. Yes, Mr. Stark had given him his personal number a while ago — swiping his phone the first time he’d invited Peter to the lab, nonchalantly adding himself to his contacts, as if it was no big deal, even though he must’ve known Peter was internally  _freaking out_  — but he’d also said, firmly, “For emergencies only, kiddo. If you call, or god forbid text, and you’re not actively dying, I  _will_  take away lab privileges.”   
  
Peter had never had the guts to even consider touching the number himself, and Mr. Stark had rarely used it, mostly reaching out through Happy to coordinate, sometimes sending an email with a new tech idea between lab sessions, and occasionally,  _very_  occasionally, calling to congratulate him when a particular feat of heroism happened to hit the news. But texting? No way.  
  
And yet, here he is, looking at a message from Your Coolest Friend.   
  
_Hey Pete. How ya holding up?_  
  
He stares at it, trying to process. Capitalization. Proper punctuation. But that  _ya_ , as if he’s trying to make this seem casual when it’s so obviously not. It is not  _casual_  for Tony Stark to text him in the middle of physics.   
  
He doesn’t answer right away. Because he’s in class and he doesn’t want to get in trouble. Definitely not because he has no clue what to say.   
  
“Is this for real?” Ned gushes at lunch, holding the phone close, as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. His eyes go wide when Peter nods. “Oh, I know, send him that picture of Lego Hulk we took last night.”  
  
“Dude, no. He does  _not_  need to know I build Lego sets of his friends. That’s weird.”  
  
Ned concedes the point with a shrug. “You could tell him the truth.”  
  
Peter considers what that message would look like.  _How am I? I’m exhausted. I’ve gotten about four hours of sleep for the past three nights. I keep dreaming about dying in your arms_.  
  
Yeah, no, not happening. But pretending everything is good would be a lie. In the end, he goes with:  _ok, but kinda bored…_  
  
Maybe that’ll net him another trip to the compound. Last time had its weird moments, and he hadn’t been allowed to wear the suits to the gym after all — “Nice try, kid, but Aunt Hottie said no, and she scares me” — but it was still a lot better than sitting at home. He likes spending time in the lab, likes playing with gadgets and trying out new ideas. Likes being around Mr. Stark, even when he’s strangely intense.  
  
But no such luck. Not only does Mr. Stark not invite him to the lab, he doesn’t respond at all.   
  
Until that night, when he’s startled by a bang at his window and discovers a SI drone carrying a cardboard box.  _Something to keep you entertained – TS_  is scrawled across the top in Mr. Stark’s bold handwriting.   
  
What. The. Fuck.   
  
Peter rips the box open. Inside is another box, this one covered in moving parts: colors, numbers, shifting gears. It takes a few minutes of messing around to figure out it’s a puzzle box — but way more complicated than any puzzle box he’s ever seen. Something to keep him entertained. Ha.  
  
He picks up his phone, opens the contact for Mr. Stark, types a quick thank you and, heart pounding, hits send. Why does he feel nervous? He shouldn’t feel nervous about thanking someone who gave him a present. That’s a normal thing to do. This is all normal. Just a new step in their relationship.  
  
The reply comes back almost immediately:  _Made it just for you, kid. It’s worth solving, scout’s honor._  
  
Made it for him? What, this afternoon? He turns back to the box with renewed interest. Yep. Normal. Completely normal. 

***

The thing is impossible. He takes it with him to school — Ned completely loses his shit — where he fiddles with it under his desk for two days straight. On the second day Flash spots it and mocks him for “playing with toys.” It takes all his self-restraint not to snap back that this “toy” was made for him, personally, by Tony Stark.  
  
“You should’ve told him,” Ned complains, glaring at Flash’s back as the bully runs, laughing, down the hall. “It would’ve blown his mind.”  
  
“He wouldn’t believe me anyway,” Peter says with a shrug, not adding that it feels like the kind of thing he shouldn’t share with the entire world, even if they did believe him. It’s too…something. Personal, maybe.  
  
That night, after several more hours of concentrated work, he finally solves the damn thing. The box falls open in his hands with a satisfying clunk. Inside, there’s a small case, black, emblazoned with a red spider. Right — worth solving. The case contains an earpiece. Puzzled, he puts it in and switches it on.  
  
“Hello, Peter.”  
  
“Karen!” he shouts, delighted. Then, realizing it’s past eleven and May is already in bed, he repeats again, quieter, “Karen! Hi! I was not expecting this.”  
   
“Mr. Stark thought you might miss me,” she says, and he can almost see the smile in her voice. “Did you?”  
  
“Yeah, of course, I told you on Saturday. This is amazing.” It had been nice to chat with her in the lab, but it wasn’t the same. He’d gotten used to having her around to talk things through, to keep him company no matter what. He hadn’t even realized exactly how much he missed her until right now; with her in his ear, being grounded suddenly seems a lot less terrible.  
  
Buzzing with excitement, he grabs his phone and snaps two photos: one of the open box, and one of himself with the earpiece, giving a thumbs up. He looks a little goofy, wearing pajamas and a dorky grin, but he sends it anyway, before he can second-guess himself.   
  
Again, the response is almost immediate:  _Well, Aunt Hottie never said you couldn’t have Karen, right? But maybe don’t tell her, just in case._  
  
And then:  _It’s nice to see that smile._    
  
Peter’s breath catches, his pulse gets quicker. What does that even mean? Mr. Stark sees him smile all the time.   
  
He pushes the question to the side and turns back to chatting with Karen. He doesn’t stop until he falls asleep, and for the first time in days, he doesn’t have a single nightmare.

***

The next morning, there’s another text waiting for him:  _If you’re still bored, I could use some input on a new web-slinger design I’ve been toying with. Check your email._  
  
And just like that, they’re texting. Going back and forth about the web-slinger, then a new application of nanotech to surgery ( _shouldn’t you be asking dr. strange about this?_ he asks. _Probably_ , comes the reply, _but I’d rather talk to you_ ). After that it’s the math test Peter has in a few days, and by the end of the next week Mr. Stark is asking him for movie recommendations, and it’s all starting to feel very natural. As if every high school junior spends their days texting with their billionaire, superhero mentor.  
  
He’s a lot less bored.   
  
And Karen helps with sleep, a bit. He’d sheepishly admitted about the nightmares on his third day having her back, and she’d come up with the idea of playing soothing music while he sleeps. It works about half the time — but only half.  
  
Which is why, exactly two weeks after that first text, he’s awake at 3 a.m., staring at the top bunk and trying not to think about dissolving, particle-by-particle, until he can’t feel anything anymore. It’s no good, he can’t clear his mind.   
  
Exhausted, annoyed, he picks up his phone and sees a new message from Mr. Stark, from a few hours ago. It’s about yet another update to the web slinger. Not necessary, but hey, something to distract him. He types out a few lines of response and then, wondering if it’s been long enough that he can finally get another lab visit, writes,  _you know, it would be a lot easier if I could just try them out in person…_  
  
Feeling bold — or maybe just too drained for a normal amount of restraint — he adds,  _hint hint ;)_  
  
He throws his phone aside, not expecting a reply. It’s three in the morning, after all. He should be going back to sleep. But even though his head is pounding and his throat feels scratchy and dry, he knows that’s not happening.  
  
And then, to his surprise, his phone lights up, casting a ghostly white glow across his ceiling. He scrambles to grab it, and sees a string of messages:  
  
_Very subtle.  
  
I’ll see what I can do. It would be nice to see you.  
  
Why are you up, anyway?_  
  
Peter contemplates that last question. Should he lie, say he just had to pee or something? Maybe he shouldn’t reply at all, and claim he fell back asleep. There’s texting with your superhero mentor, and then there’s texting with your superhero mentor in the middle of the night. His brain is foggy and slow; he might say something dumb.   
  
On the other hand, he already knows he’s not actually falling asleep again. And he likes talking to Mr. Stark. So — why not?  
  
_woke up, couldn’t get back to sleep  
  
u?_  
  
Writing dots. Why is his heart beating faster? It keeps doing that out of nowhere. It’s stupid. More writing dots.   
  
_Never fell asleep in the first place._  
  
And then his phone rings.   
  
He’s so startled he almost doesn’t answer. Maybe it’s a mistake, a slip of the finger. But it keeps ringing. What is he going to do,  _not_  pick up? There could be an emergency.  
  
(He knows there’s no emergency. He answers anyway.)  
  
“Uh, hi?” he says, and cringes inside. It’s lame and tentative, as if he has no idea what’s happening right now. Which he doesn’t, but he still wishes he didn’t sound clueless.   
  
“Okay, what’s going on with you?” Mr. Stark’s voice is rough and demanding. “Last time I saw you, you looked like you hadn’t slept in days, and now you’re up at three in morning. What gives?”  
  
Peter shifts to sitting, curling his knees up and resting his chin on them. He gnaws at the inside of his cheek as he considers how to answer, feeling incredibly called out. “You’re up, too.”  
  
“Yep. That’s how I know it’s a bad sign.” Mr. Stark sounds tired — exhausted, voice strained and slurring around the edges. “Seriously kid, you can talk to me. You know that, right? It’s important to me that you know that.”  
  
It’s said with forceful affection, even a hint of pleading; the audible version of a hug, warm arms pulling him close and safe. Something inside him crumples in relief, and suddenly he’s spilling everything: How hard it’s been to sleep since Titan. How he feels like a zombie half the time. The nightmares where he watches Mr. Stark die, and the ones where he disappears. How frightening it is to wake up gasping for breath, feeling like he’ll never be able to catch another one again.   
  
When he’s finished — after several rambling minutes — the other end of the line is silent for long enough that he worries he’s done something wrong. Finally, Mr. Stark says, very quietly, “You dream about turning into dust?”  
  
That seems like an odd thing to focus on, but he nods, and then, realizing they’re on the phone, says, “Yeah. It sucks.” When that doesn’t get a reply, he asks something that’s been nagging at him for weeks: “Does it get easier? Dealing with this stuff?”  
  
He can hear Mr. Stark sigh, quiet but clear; then the tinkle of what must be ice against the side of a glass. “Well, it’s the middle of the night and I’m currently sitting in my lab, tinkering with a suit, talking to a teenager. So, what do you think?”  
  
“Oh.” They lapse back into silence. He hears the splash of liquid being poured, and he’s not naive enough to think that’s anything but alcohol. “Sir, where’s Ms. Potts?” As soon as it’s out of his mouth, he realizes he’s crossed a line. “Uh, sorry, that’s way too personal, I shouldn’t’ve—”  
  
“It’s fine.” Another sigh. “You should probably know, actually. We split up.”  
  
“Oh.” Well, that explains a lot. Like, a  _lot_. Maybe all the weirdness hasn’t been about his stowaway trip to Titan after all. He should be relieved, but instead he feels a little deflated. “I’m...sorry?”  
  
“Nah, don’t worry about it. It happened a while ago.”  
  
Wait, what? Not that it’s his business, but that doesn’t make any sense. “But you guys seemed great just last month.”  
  
“Last—right, yeah. Last month.” If he didn’t know better, he’d think Mr. Stark sounds confused. But why would he be? “Well, kid, sometimes these things are such a long time coming, they feel like they happened before they actually did.”  
  
Peter pulls at a hole in the bottom of his pajama pants as he absorbs that answer. It’s not that he doesn’t get the idea behind it, he does, but last time he’d seen them together they’d been smiling, wedding planning, easy and affectionate. If they’d been secretly on the verge of breaking up, he’d really missed something. For a moment, he feels incredibly young and silly.   
  
“Well, I’m sorry anyway,” he finally says, awkward. The fact that they’re talking on the phone in the middle of the night suddenly feels more significant, in a way that makes his heart start beating faster again and  _seriously_ , it needs to stop doing that.  
  
“Thanks.” More tinkling, the sound of liquid swirling in a glass. “I guess I should let you get back to sleep, huh.”  
  
His stomach drops, and he has to stop himself from pleading  _no_. As surreal as this conversation is, his other option is going back to staring at nothing, trying to forget the sensation of dying. “Honestly, I don’t think I’m going back to sleep tonight,” he admits.  
  
“Okay, well, that’s not great, Pete.” But there’s a new energy in Mr. Stark’s voice, as if he’s excited to keep talking. “We’re going to figure something out for those nightmares. But in the meantime, I’m having trouble with this suit modification. Can I bounce some ideas off you?”   
  
Peter eagerly agrees, and within minutes they’re immersed in the problem, conversation flowing so naturally he almost forgets how late it is, until, slowly, exhaustion creeps up through his body and into his brain, and he finds himself drifting off, Mr. Stark’s narration of his work a comforting lullaby as he slips under.

***

It takes a lot of smooth talk on Mr. Stark’s part, but May does agree to another lab visit — only she insists it has to be the weekend after next. She tells Peter it’s because he has academic decathlon practice this weekend, “and once you commit to something you can’t ditch, even for Tony Stark,” but Peter suspects it’s really a new, ingenious form of punishment.   
  
“It’s not fair! She just doesn’t want me to think she’s gone soft,” he complains to Mr. Stark that night. When Mr. Stark calls him. At 11 p.m.  
  
Because, yeah, apparently that’s a thing they do now.   
  
“Your education comes first, kid.”   
  
“I learn way more from you than at academic decathlon!” Peter knows he sounds petulant, maybe childish, but he feels like a child, locked in his room every evening.  
  
Mr. Stark laughs fondly, low and soft. The sound hits Peter with a sharp pang of something he hasn’t been letting himself analyze. “Don’t blame her. You really scared her.”   
  
“I guess. But this is the worst, I’m going crazy.”   
  
“It isn’t that long to wait,” Mr. Stark insists. When Peter makes a skeptical noise, he adds, “What if you stay overnight? It’d be helpful to have you around longer, to try out new adjustments.”  
  
Peter’s heart jumps at the suggestion. A  _whole night_  out of his cramped apartment, which somehow gets smaller as the weeks drag on. A whole night to hang out with Mr. Stark. Not just in the lab — separate tables, absorbed in their projects — but eating dinner, watching a movie like they used to, before he’d landed himself in this endless loop of school and home and nightmares —  
  
“I mean, yeah, that would be amazing,” he breathes. “But no way would May let me.”  
  
“Your lack of faith is disturbing, young Padawan,” Mr. Stark replies. “I can be very persuasive.”   
  
Peter giggles and points out he’s getting his  _Star Wars_  lines mixed up, and they launch into an argument about which movie is best, chattering until Peter’s words blur together, phone slipping from his shoulder, and Mr. Stark says goodnight.  
  
Because, yeah, that’s been happening a lot, too. It turns out it’s easier to fall asleep with Mr. Stark’s voice in his ear, and when he does, he’s less likely to wake up screaming. 

***

Mr. Stark persuades May to allow an overnight. How, Peter isn’t sure. He’s half convinced he must’ve called in a favor with Wanda Maximoff, because it seems like nothing short of mind control could have done it.   
  
However it happened, here he is, face pressed against the glass of Happy’s car, backpack stuffed with pajamas and a toothbrush, heart pounding wildly. His hands are clammy and cold; he hasn’t felt this nervous to be at the compound since the very first time he’d been called here, and it makes no sense. Texting Mr. Stark for the last few weeks, chatting with him at night — that should make coming here more comfortable, not less. He’d always looked up to him, enjoyed spending time with him, but now they’re friends. Like, really friends.  
  
Or...something. They’re something, anyway.  
  
But this isn’t like going to Ned’s house. It’s like — well, the closest feeling he can remember is going to pick Liz up for homecoming: anxiousness fluttering behind his rib cage, dryness in his throat, all mixed with desperate eagerness. That’s a comparison he’s definitely going to avoid looking at too closely.   
  
As soon as they pull into the driveway he leaps out of the car and sprints to the door, but he draws short before ripping it open. What if it’s not the same? He’s fallen asleep to the sound of Mr. Stark going on about science or movies or the Avengers every night this week, but it’s been from behind a screen, hasn’t felt quite real. What if once they’re face-to-face, it’s like it never happened?   
  
Before he can process this sudden fear, the door swings open, and there he is, startlingly handsome in black slacks, AC/DC shirt, smudge of oil across his cheek. His eyes are red and tired, his normally immaculate facial hair unkempt and stubbly. But as his gaze falls on Peter he smiles, broad and warm. Not a smile for show — sarcastic or flattering, pleased with himself — but one etched with real pleasure.   
  
“About time,” he says, and pulls Peter into a tight hug, arms folding across his shoulders and lower back, surrounding him. With a gasp of relief, Peter returns the embrace, letting his face fall against his neck.   
  
They stand like that for longer than can possibly be reasonable, until Happy comes up behind them, clearing his throat. They break apart immediately, and Peter feels himself flush as he turns around. Which — why? It was just a hug. Nothing to be embarrassed about.  
  
Mr. Stark certainly doesn’t seem embarrassed as he tells Happy he can have the rest of the day off. “Great job getting the kid here alive,” he says as he waves him away. “Really, top notch work. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”  
  
Happy flips him off. Mr. Stark just shrugs and turns back to Peter. “You look better.”  
  
“I’ve been getting more sleep,” he explains. “For some reason,” he adds with a nervous grin. Is it weird to talk about it? It might be weird to talk about it. But wouldn’t it also be weird not to?  
  
“Quite the mystery,” Mr. Stark replies, winking. He drops a hand onto Peter’s shoulder. “Back to the lab, then?”  
  
Peter nods. This is fine. They’re good. There’d been no reason to be nervous.  
  
But the anxious, eager fluttering returns as Mr. Stark’s hand slides down, settling at his lower back, staying planted there all the way to the lab, burning and welcome. 

***

In the lab, things feel normal.   
  
Almost.  
  
It’s certainly easy to slip into their regular pattern: Mr. Stark showing him the latest web slinger design, letting him play with it, running tests, tweaking, debating the best changes, more tests. The pleasure of concentrating on a task, spotting a problem and working it out, bouncing ideas off each other. The challenge of new calculations and the simple joy of manipulating wires and metal. Hours slip by absorbed in the work, like they always do.  
  
But it’s not exactly the same. Mr. Stark keeps staring at him, thoughtful, eyes flicking away whenever Peter catches him looking. His fingers linger on Peter’s wrists as he adjusts the slinger, thumb skimming the exposed skin just below his palm. As he moves around the lab he keeps brushing against him, hands landing on his waist, his back, his arm.   
  
Every time, Peter feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him. Which is something he’s not going to be able to put off analyzing forever. But he pushes it aside for now in favor of focusing on another difference: there’s a glass of scotch on Mr. Stark’s desk when they arrive in the lab, even though it’s only noon, and as the day wears on, he keeps downing it in large gulps, refilling regularly.   
  
By the time he suggests they switch to testing out the suits, he’s on drink number five.   
  
Peter obediently slips into the Spider-Man classic. This time he’s ready when Mr. Stark comes close, feeling across his body, smoothing and pinching the tight fabric; braces himself for the flush of goosebumps that follows the trail of his fingers. He’s everywhere at once, consuming Peter’s space, leaving him dizzy.  
  
“I think it’s perfect,” Mr. Stark finally says, leaving a hand resting at Peter’s hip, heavy. The smile he gives him is toothy and proud. “Told you I wouldn’t settle for anything less.”  
  
“Yeah,” Peter agrees, though he’s barely paying any attention to the suit. Mr. Stark is just inches away, so close he can make out the individual lashes fluttering over his red-rimmed eyes; the harsh undertones of alcohol on his breath are so strong the sting is physical. “Do you think it might be time for something to eat?”  
  
Mr. Stark’s hand tightens, fingers digging into Peter’s skin, and then he nods.   
  
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Good idea. That’s a really good idea.”

***

They go to Mr. Stark’s private suite rather than the general living area, which is new, but he waves away Peter’s confused frown by explaining that Wanda is staying downstairs, and “she’s not really big into people right now.”   
  
He takes Peter on the tour, hand gripping the back of his neck as he shows him the top-of-the-line kitchen, the hallway with an extra bedroom (“that’s you tonight, kid”), and the living room “with an A/V setup that’s way better than what they’ve got downstairs.” The suite is sleek and modern, lots of white and exposed metal, glass coffee table, grey-on-grey patterned rug, abstract paintings on the wall. It’s really nice, but like a fancy hotel or picture in a magazine: perfect, but not welcoming. The idea of Mr. Stark sitting in here, watching movies alone, makes Peter’s heart sink.  
  
And he doesn’t miss the way he pours himself a glass of whiskey as soon as he walks into the kitchen, or the half-empty bottle of vodka peeking out from beneath the couch.  
  
But the itch of worry is easy to ignore once the Chinese food arrives and Mr. Stark tells him to pick a movie, any movie (“just do me a favor and don’t tell me it’s old”). They settle into a  _Die Hard_  marathon, Peter curled in a giant arm chair, Mr. Stark stretched out on the couch. It’s pleasant, cozy. Homey, even, despite the formality of the furniture. The evening passes in an instant, until Mr. Stark looks at his watch, acts shocked at the time, and shoos Peter off to the guest room where, content, he falls asleep immediately —   
  
And then wakes, choking and clutching the air, panicked pleas on his lips.   
  
Because of-fucking-course. Here he is, two in the morning, huddled around a pillow in the center of the bed, panic coursing through his muscles. He’s wide awake, and for a moment he longs to pick up the phone and call Mr. Stark. But that would be a really weird thing to do when they’re in the same building.   
  
Instead, he decides to see if there’s tea hiding in the kitchen. Not that tea normally helps after one of these nightmares, but it’s better than lying in the dark. Wearing boxers and a crumpled  _Star Trek_  t-shirt, he shuffles down the hall and out into the living room.  
  
He stops short.   
  
Because there’s Mr. Stark, slumped in a corner of the couch, vodka bottle in his hand. The only light is from the TV, flickering mutely. He doesn’t seem to be watching it, head thrown back, eyes unfocused. 

Peter’s not popular, but he’s been to enough parties to know what someone being drunk looks like. Mr. Stark is  _very_  drunk.  
  
He should — leave? Yeah, probably. Leave, go back to bed. He’s definitely not supposed to be seeing this. But he hovers in the doorway, not able to force himself to turn around. Mr. Stark looks so defeated. Small. It’s frightening, and he instantly wants to unwind the moment, unknow it. But at the same time, he longs to take the bottle from his hand, help him somewhere more comfortable. He can’t just leave him.   
  
“Kid?” Mr. Stark’s eyes have focused. He shifts, sitting straighter.   
  
Too late to disappear now. Peter smiles awkwardly. “Hi.”  
  
“What’re you doing up?” The words aren’t slurred, exactly, but they are murmured, low and quiet.   
  
“One guess.”   
  
“Oh.”   
  
It’s dark, but Peter makes his way across the room easily. Mr. Stark’s eyes don’t leave him as he gently takes the vodka bottle and places it out of reach before settling onto the other side of the couch, back against the arm rest, so that he’s facing his mentor. Sitting like this, there’s only a few feet between them. He can smell the alcohol, punchy, mixed with a musky scent that’s much more appealing. He pulls up his knees and rests his chin on them, hugging his legs.   
  
“So, hi,” he says again.  
  
Mr. Stark lets out a huff that’s maybe supposed to be a laugh, collapsing back into the cushions. “Hi.”  
  
In the faint blue glow of the TV he looks sickly; dark bags under his eyes like bruises, hair tangled and messy. He sprawls with whatever the complete opposite of elegance is called, nothing like the controlled, brilliant man who can craft superhero suits and take on alien psychopaths.  
  
Everything is definitely not okay, and Peter has no idea what to do. He thinks back to the memory of Ned, vomiting into a toilet after too much beer at an academic decathlon party. MJ had kept slipping in and out of the bathroom with cups of water.  
  
“Can I get you water?” he offers.  
  
Mr. Stark shakes his head, lolling it from side to side, staring up at the ceiling. “Not your job,” he says, voice gravely. He reaches out blindly until he finds Peter’s foot, and grasps his ankle. “I take care of you, not the other way around.”  
  
Peter freezes, unable to breathe. Mr. Stark’s grip is a white-hot blaze up his leg, his words something between a stab to the heart and a hug. He feels a sob rise in his throat. He swallows it down and leans forward, putting his hand around Mr. Stark’s wrist. “I can get you water, it’s not a big deal.”   
  
Before Mr. Stark can protest he swings to his feet and rushes to the kitchen. By the time he returns, Mr. Stark is sitting up again. He accepts the glass of water Peter brings him, gulping it down and slumping forward with a groan, head in his hands. Peter sits beside him, close enough for their legs to brush, and places his hand on his back.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Stark mutters into his hands. “I—you really shouldn’t have to deal with this.”   
  
Peter resists the urge to throw his arms around him, to hook his chin over his shoulder and whisper in his ear that it’s okay, it’s going to be okay. How many times in the last week has Mr. Stark ended his night like this, alone, after spending an hour on the phone talking Peter to sleep?  
  
He blinks back tears.   
  
“It can go both ways,” he says, and is surprised to hear his voice sound tight. Mr. Stark glances at him, questioning. “Taking care of each other, it can go both ways.”   
  
Mr. Stark buries his face in his palms again, shaking his head. “No. That’s not—you don’t need that.”  
  
“Maybe not,” Peter agrees. He curls his hand around Mr. Stark’s shoulder and gently pulls until he’s forced to straighten, revealing watery eyes. “But it’s how it is. I hate to break it to you, sir, but you’re stuck with me.”  
  
“I’m sorry about that.”  
  
It’s said with such sincerity Peter wants to cry again. He presses his eyes closed and takes a deep breath to gather himself. “Are you going to let me help you get to bed, or are you going to force me to carry you?”   
  
“Sometimes I forget how stubborn you are, kid,” Mr. Stark complains. But he lets Peter tug him to his feet, leans against him as they make their way back to his room. In the doorway he turns to him, expression anguished. “Don’t worry about me,” he pleads. “This is—I’m okay. Please don’t worry.”  
  
On instinct, not giving himself time to think about it, Peter curls his hand around the back of Mr. Stark’s neck and presses their foreheads together. His own boldness leaves him a little shocked, and it takes a second to remember that he should probably say something, too. “A bit late for that, sir,” he whispers.   
  
Mr. Stark’s head falls to Peter’s shoulder, arms circling him, tugging them close. Peter lets his hand slide up to clutch his hair, nuzzling against him, breathing in shampoo and oil and sweat. It smells like comfort.   
  
Finally, after more than a minute — during which all Peter can hear is the beating of their hearts, and the buzz of his brain’s inability to process the moment — Mr. Stark reluctantly pulls away. He gives a weak smile, and says, groggy, “See you in the morning, kid.”  
  
When Peter gets back to his bed, he doesn’t fall asleep for a long, long time. 


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, F.R.I.D.A.Y. tells him a car is ready for him. Mr. Stark doesn’t even come out of his room to say goodbye. After that, the phone calls stop, and the texts scale way back. When they do come, they’re terser, more formal.  
  
It makes Peter want to cry.  
  
It’s also, he decides after three days of near silence, completely unfair.  _He’s_  not the one who got too drunk, he doesn’t deserve to be punished for it. Honestly, he was just trying to help.  
  
Sitting in the world’s most boring math class, ignoring the lesson in favor of playing that night over again in his head for the millionth time, he’s hit by a flare of desperate anger. Mr. Stark had clung to him, had seemed to like him being there. And now he’s just not talking to him? He dashes out an impulsive text:  _no offense, sir, but this disappearing act is kinda complete bullshit_.   
  
Before he can press send his teacher notices his phone is out and snappishly demands he come to the board to solve a problem. By the time he gets back to his seat, he’s cooled down enough to delete the message. Part of him knows this isn’t really a punishment. Mr. Stark’s probably just embarrassed.  
  
Embarrassed or — something else, maybe. Something Peter’s not willing to admit might be a possibility. Because he still hasn’t quite let his mind settle on the anxious hope that’s been fluttering in his chest since The Visit.   
  
But he also can’t ignore the ghosting memories of Mr. Stark’s touch — hand on his back, fingers brushing his wrist, head tucked against his neck — which startle him at inconvenient times, so vivid he aches.   
  
And it’s definitely harder to fall asleep without his voice in his ear. There’s no denying that, it’s just a fact. When he wakes, gasping, in the middle of the night — and he does, every night — he tries to lull himself back to sleep by replaying their conversations. And maybe, when he’s tired enough to not quite admit to himself what he’s doing, he also imagines calloused hands stroking his hair, a whispered voice telling him it’s okay.   
  
It doesn’t really help.

***

After a week of yearning with increasing anxiety for any communication deeper than awkwardly formal texts about yet another unnecessary tweak to the suit, Peter crafts a more measured message, which he hopes gets his point across without seeming needy or annoying:  
  
_mr. stark i'm sorry if last weekend was weird, but you really dont need to shut me out_  
  
He almost adds,  _i meant it when i said it can go both ways_ , but doesn’t have the nerve. It’s probably too much, and he’s not even sure Mr. Stark would remember what he’s talking about.  
  
He tries not to stare at his phone all day waiting for a response, but he fails miserably. Halfway through English Ned asks what’s up with him and he has to mumble a lie about a text from May, because he loves Ned and he’d trust him with his life, but he doesn’t think this is the kind of thing he should be sharing with anyone, not even the person who’s managed to keep his Spider-secret.   
  
Just as the final bell rings, he spots typing bubbles. They go and disappear a few times and he feels like he’s going to throw up. Finally,  _finally_ , after the most painfully long wait of his life — okay, it’s less than a minute, but it feels like a year — a message appears.  
  
_Yeah, kid, I really do. I’m sorry, it’s not your fault. This is on me._  
  
It feels like someone just took a knife to his chest.

In a flash of rage, he tosses his phone at the ground; the screen cracks across the front, cutting a jagged line through the offending words.   
  
Perfect. Just perfect.  
  
It’s not like he’s about to ask Mr. Stark to replace it for him. Fortunately, he knows a good place, from back before Iron Man sent him new tech every few months. When life almost made sense. It’s a bit out of the way, but he could use the walk.   
  
With a frustrated sigh he takes off, striding quickly, trying to let the nice weather cheer him up. It’s one of those rare spring days where the sun cuts through the still-crisp air exactly enough to make it warm, but not sticky. He itches to swing from the buildings, lose himself in the adrenaline of the drops and the heady thrill of soaring. Maybe that would be enough to jangle loose the tight ball of disappointment that’s settled, leaden, in his stomach. But he can’t. He doesn’t have his suit, or even his slingers. He has to make do with one foot in front of the other.

***

The store is the same as ever, crowded floor to ceiling with old electronics, masses of cords dangling everywhere like some kind of interior decorating nightmare. The owner, Fareed, looks up when the tinkling bell announces Peter’s arrival, and breaks into a grin when he sees who it is.   
  
“Mr. Parker! I was afraid my favorite customer had forgotten about me. What’ve you got this time?”  
  
“Nothing exciting, just a broken screen,” Peter warns, fishing his cracked phone out of his backpack.   
  
Fareed’s momentary disappointment quickly transforms into awe when he gets the phone into his hands, and Peter realizes a few beats too late that it’s a model that’s not on the market yet. He quickly bluffs a line about the perks of his internship, which earns an impressed eyebrow raise.  
  
“So, uh, how’re things with you?” he adds quickly, before the whip-smart tech wiz thinks to ask why he doesn’t just get his “boss” to replace it. “Sorry I haven’t been around.”   
  
Fareed’s impressed smile flickers; he sets the phone down with a sigh, and explains that there’s been a spate of break-ins along the block recently. “They held up Ms. Rabinowitz at gunpoint.” He shakes his head sadly, returning to examining the phone with a defeated shrug. “Cops aren’t trying very hard to find them, if you ask me. What can we do?”   
  
He catches sight of Peter’s face and, apparently interpreting his expression incorrectly, adds, “I’ll keep your phone locked in a safe, don’t worry. It’ll be done tomorrow.”  
  
Peter doesn’t correct him, but as he heads home his mind is swimming with what is probably a very, very bad idea. A very, very bad idea that gives him something to think about other than the man who shut him out just as he was starting to need him. 

***

That night, he fishes his old suit out of his ceiling. He was right, it doesn’t really fit, but it’s close enough. At least the goggles still help with his senses, and his old web slingers are — well, they suck, but they’ll do the trick. It’s just some random robber, he doesn’t exactly need the most cutting-edge stuff.   
  
Unbidden, annoying, his mind pulls up the image of Mr. Stark’s hands grazing across his new suit, lopsided smile not quite hiding the deep sadness behind his eyes as he promised to give him only better than the best. “The Peter Parker special,” he’d called it. Yeah. So much for that.  
  
He sneaks out of the window and launches himself at the nearest building. It feels even better than he remembers; like breathing freely for the first time in weeks. He covers the distance to Fareed’s block in under ten minutes, and is a little disappointed it’s so quick. Maybe he’ll reward himself for catching the robber by taking the long way home.  
  
He drops to a rooftop. As a last minute decision he’d taken Karen with him. He slips her into his ear now, quickly explaining the situation.  
  
“I thought you weren’t allowed to patrol,” she observes, disapproving.   
  
“Yeah, I know,” he whispers back, scanning the street. “But Fareed’s a friend, and someone needs to do something. No one will find out.”  
  
The street is empty, and it stays that way. For an hour. And then another hour. He’d be going crazy if it weren’t for Karen playing his favorite science podcast to keep his mind from wandering places he doesn’t want it to go. Just has he’s starting to realize this wasn’t his most well thought out plan, three men emerge from around the corner. They’re in all black, and walking with more purpose than anyone should have at two in the morning.   
  
He hops into a crouch, missing the pull-up screen from his normal suit; it would be nice to get a closer look without having to move. The men beeline for Fareed’s store. One drops a bag to the ground and pulls out what looks like a blowtorch.   
  
“Gotcha,” Peter says before leaping from the building, swinging to land just a few feet away from the huddled group. “Hey guys, what’cha up to?”  
  
The men turn in unison. They’re wearing ski masks — which, cliché much? — but their surprise is clear in the way they move.  
  
“Get outta here, freak,” one growls, voice so gravelly it’s almost a parody of itself.   
  
“I’d love to,” Peter quips, sending a web at the blowtorch and yanking it out of its surprised owner’s hands. “But you’re about to break into my friend’s store.”  
  
The man who spoke lunges in Peter’s direction. He quickly wraps him in web fluid, sending him tripping to the ground.   
  
“Besides,” he adds, turning to face the other two. “My phone’s in there. Gotta protect my property.” He launches a web gob at the guy who’d been carrying the blowtorch, but he’s quicker on his feet than his friend and manages to dodge the shot. “It’s the American way. They taught me that in civics.”  
  
He sends another web —  
  
He  _tries_  to send another web, anyway. It doesn’t go. He shakes the slinger and tries again. All he gets is a short, sad burst of fluid that barely makes it a foot.   
  
“Uh, Karen?” he asks, before realizing that of course she has no connection to the slingers right now.   
  
“Your web slinger seems to be malfunctioning,” she tells him, pointlessly. “I’d suggest removing yourself from the situation.”   
  
“No way!” Peter dodges as the second man tries to grab him. Okay, so he doesn’t have his webs. No big deal. This is still just two dudes. He fought an alien madman and won. Kinda.  
  
The man throws a punch and Peter grabs his hand, shoving him, not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to get him out of the way. He turns to take care of the blowtorch guy, and that’s when everything explodes.

A sound like the entire universe bursting apart rips through his head.

Suddenly he’s on his knees, entire right side a searing mess of pain. He gasps, lungs struggling for breath, mind flailing to fight through the sensory overload: flaming nerves, blaring roar in his ears.   
  
_Shot_ , some part of his brain that’s still functioning fills in. His hand finds his side, feels something sticky there. Okay. Yeah. He’s been shot. That’ll be hard to explain to May. He tries to push himself back up, but every movement feels like it’s tearing his insides apart. He gags.  
  
A boot connects to his ribs with a crunch. He feels something snap and buckles over, world going black around the edges. Through the ringing he hears a pained groan that must be his own. Another swift kick knocks his arm out from under him. His face smashes against the pavement, where he stays, gasping for air.   
  
Apparently satisfied that he’s down for good, one of the men snatches the blowtorch back and returns to the grate that protects the store, while the other goes to help his web-entangled friend. They’re going to continue the break-in. Assholes.   
  
Peter keeps down, struggling to get his heartrate under control against a backdrop of pain that’s attempting to swallow his body. His senses are going haywire, ears echoing a high-pitched buzz that makes it almost impossible to focus. He concentrates on his breathing, trying to dull everything into that steady in, out, in, out. It helps, he decides after several steady gasps. He just needs a minute and he’ll be able to get back up. This isn’t worse than having a building dropped on him. Yeah. Just…one minute. One minute and he’ll be —  
  
Suddenly, there’s a crash and a shout and then his heart jumps, because he recognizes that distinctive hum. With a moan, he rolls over in time to see Iron Man, flashing red and gold, land on the sidewalk and stalk forward, hitting one of the robbers square in the chest with a blast. The man goes flying, smashing against a building and sliding to the ground, unconscious.   
  
“Mr. Stark!” Peter shouts, but if he can hear him in the suit, he doesn’t answer. “Karen, what’s he doing here?”  
  
“I called him.”  
  
“Traitor,” he mutters, forcing himself to sitting. A wave of agony radiates from the bullet wound, and the sidewalk spins. “Why—”  
  
The question dies on his lips as Mr. Stark grabs one of the men, throwing him against the brick of the store with way more force than necessary. He slams a fist into his stomach with a sickening thud; the nanobots around his hand retract before he makes contact, but it’s still an impossibly hard blow. The man shouts, low and guttural.   
  
“You like that, asshole?” Mr. Stark’s voice comes cold and metallic through the suit, but his anger is clear, frightening. He moves his metal hand to the man’s throat before punching him again; the man coughs blood.  
  
His friend, apparently deciding he wants out, takes off down the street. Mr. Stark hits him with a blast without even turning to look. He falls to the ground with a scream.  
  
What the  _fuck_.  
  
Pain forgotten in a burst of adrenaline, Peter jumps to his feet, dashing to Mr. Stark’s side and grabbing his arm before he can land another blow. “Sir! Stop! You’re going to kill him!”  
  
Mr. Stark turns toward him, facemask dissolving to reveal eyes wild with fury. “That’s the idea,” he growls, hand tightening around the man’s throat.  
  
Again: What. The. Fuck.   
  
Panicked, Peter shoves him with as much strength as he can manage. Even fighting against a gunshot wound it’s enough to send him stumbling backwards. The man, suddenly free, drops to the ground, gasping.  
  
“I’d get out of here,” Peter tells him. “And stop stealing from people.”   
  
He doesn’t wait to see if the robber listens before turning back to Mr. Stark, who’s raising his arm as if he’s about to attack again. Without thinking he shoots a web at him. It works this time, catching him in the chest.   
  
Acting on instinct, Peter grabs the web and swings as hard as he can, sending Mr. Stark sailing down the block, away from the men he’s apparently trying to kill. He lands with a loud clunk, screeching to a standstill before blasting off, coming straight back at Peter.   
  
For a panicked second, Peter thinks he’s about to have the full force of Iron Man slam into him, but he comes to a stop less than a foot away, suit disappearing. Peter can hear the robbers running down the street, shouting as they go; Mr. Stark doesn’t try to stop them. His blazing glare lands on Peter instead.  
  
“What the hell, sir?” Peter demands. He wants it to sound fierce and defiant, but a sharp pain in his side forces him to cut off with an undignified gasp.   
  
“Oh no,  _you’re_  not the one who gets to ask that question,” Mr. Stark hisses back. He takes a step forward. Suddenly there’s no distance between them, and Peter can’t breathe. He rips off his mask; the sharp bite of alcohol fills the air. Well, that explains a lot. “What the hell,  _you._ What happened to staying at home?”  
  
“My friend was having a problem with break ins—”  
  
“So you decided to take down a bunch of criminals with guns in your onesie?”  
  
He says it like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard, but Peter shrugs. “They’re just some ordinary guys. It didn’t seem like a big deal.”  
  
Mr. Stark’s eyes flash dangerously. His hand comes roughly to Peter’s side, wiping through the thick, dark spot staining his suit. He raises it, splattered with red.  
  
“Looks like a big deal to me. What would have happened if I hadn’t been in the city for a meeting?” The question is quiet and tense. Somehow that’s worse than shouting. It’s not the quiet of calm, it’s quiet like he’s about to explode. “What if I hadn’t been able to get here in time?”  
  
Peter blinks at the question, trying to process. He doesn’t quite get why Mr. Stark’s  _this_  mad, not after he made it so clear he doesn’t even want to be around him.  
  
“Uh, I would’ve gotten up,” he finally replies. “Like I’m doing  _right now_. And I would’ve been fine, like I am  _right now_.” And, okay, yeah, he has to pause to catch his breath, which probably makes that not super convincing. But he did throw Iron Man halfway down the block a minute ago, which he thinks proves his point. “And you wouldn’t have shown up drunk and almost  _murdered_  those guys. What was  _that_?”  
  
“They hurt you,” Mr. Stark says simply, as if that’s an answer.   
  
“That doesn’t mean you get to kill them.” He resists the urge to bring a hand to his side. The pain is starting to get the best of him, but he refuses to show it.   
  
“Oh _yes it does_.” The expression on Mr. Stark’s face ripples with a darkness Peter’s never seen there before. It almost knocks him over with its intensity. “Kid, I’ll kill anyone who tries to take you from me again.”  
  
The words hang in the air, almost physical in everything they contain, incomprehensible.  
  
“Again?” Peter echoes, trying to make it fit. Panic clutches at his chest, the memory of floating apart in nightmares dances across his vision, unbidden and unhelpful. “What? When—what’re you talking about? Is this about Titan?”   
  
“Yeah, it’s about Titan.” Mr. Stark reaches forward, grabbing his suit, tugging him closer. The smell of alcohol is overpowering. “You don’t even know how much it’s about Titan. You don’t get to do this shit, Peter. You don’t get to put yourself in front of bullets.”  
  
“Why not?” It feels like he’s at the edge of something finally making sense, so he pushes: “I’m a superhero too. I’m stronger than you. I can heal. Why not?”  
  
“Because.” Mr. Stark’s voice is raw with an emotion Peter can’t begin to place. He leans in, breath hot.

Suddenly his lips are on Peter’s, kissing him roughly, fiercely, hand coming to his hair, gripping so hard it almost hurts. Before Peter can wrap his mind around what’s happening long enough to start kissing back, it’s over.

“Because,” Mr. Stark repeats, “you don’t get to die. Not again. I can’t do it again.”  
  
As Peter gapes at him in stunned disbelief, brain scrambling to catch up with the last thirty seconds, he reactivates his suit and blasts off.   
  
What. The.  _Fuck_.

***

Peter sinks to his knees, head spinning. He’s not sure if it’s from loss of blood, or because  _Mr. Stark just kissed him_.  
  
Or maybe it’s that word:  _again_.   
  
“Karen,” he asks, fighting to keep focused as the world twists around him. He falls forward, oddly light. He can barely register the feel of pavement under his hands. His mouth tastes like metal. “What did he mean, he can’t deal with me dying  _again_?”  
  
“I don’t know, Peter,” his AI replies. She sounds worried. “But F.R.I.D.A.Y. has conveyed that Mr. Stark has arranged for a medical team to pick you up. He says to stay here, and put your mask back on.”   
  
Peter laughs at the absurdity of that. As if he’s going to wait around for a team of strangers to fuss over injuries his powers will fix just fine. Yeah, right. Not when he can still feel the pressure of Mr. Stark’s lips on his, skin still tingling from where his beard rubbed against it. 

Not when that word is hanging in the air: _again_.  
  
Memories of nightmares flood his conscious, so vivid they feel realer than the world around him. He has to touch his own face, fingers dancing desperately along his features, to be sure he’s not dissolving on the air right now.

Is it possible that…? No. That would be crazy.  _Completely crazy_.  
  
On the other hand, it would explain some things. The way Mr. Stark had looked at him on Titan, as if his presence was a gift. The desperation in his touch since then, as if he wants to be sure Peter is really there. The way he’d paused when Peter first explained his nightmares, lingering over the details —  
  
Yeah, no fucking way is he staying here.   
  
“Did he go back to his penthouse?” Peter asks Karen.   
  
“I don’t know,” she replies. “But you’re not supposed to move.”   
  
“Yeah, well, tell Fri to tell him I’m not doing that. Tell him I’ll meet him at the penthouse.”  
  
“Peter, that’s not a good idea.” The disapproval in her voice is clear. “You’ve lost too much blood.”  
  
Peter struggles to his feet. “Add that if he’s not there and I pass out from blood loss, it’s on him.”  
  
He shoots a patch of web fluid across his wound to block the bleeding, and aims his slinger at the nearest building.

***

It takes less than a minute to realize swinging is totally not going to work with his broken rib. He drops to the ground with a repressed groan and staggers through the neighborhood’s familiar streets until he hits a major intersection and manages to hail a cab. Fortunately, the driver simply looks him over and asks, “Hospital?”   
  
When Peter shakes his head and gives him Mr. Stark’s address instead, he shrugs disinterestedly and tells him not to get blood on the seat.  

“Nice costume,” he adds, before skidding off.   
  
Peter forces himself to keep his eyes open, watching streetlights blur by. The pain has dulled to a throb, radiating from his side down his limbs in bursts, and the bleeding has stopped, or at least his makeshift fluid bandage is doing the trick. The world is still spinning a little; he feels lightheaded and nauseous. He tries opening the window, but the rip of the wind and the rush of smells is overwhelming, so he quickly rolls it up and goes back to concentrating on slow and steady breathing, trying to block out everything else: the discomfort, the urge to gag, and most of all, his thoughts.  
  
When they finally arrive outside the soaring high-rise, Peter realizes he doesn’t actually have any money with him. Of course not, he’s in his suit. How did he not think of that? Before he can totally panic, there’s a rap at the front window, and he realizes Mr. Stark is standing there in jeans, an MIT shirt, and sunglasses, which somehow don’t look ridiculous on him even in the middle of the night.  
  
“Is that Tony Stark?” the cabbie asks in amazement, rolling down his window.  
  
Mr. Stark hands him a large stack of cash. “That’s $1000,” he says with casual cool, as if he didn’t almost murder someone in a blind rage less than thirty minutes ago. “None of this happened, got it?”  
  
The man nods happily and Mr. Stark moves to the door Peter is currently sagging against, yanking it open and catching him as he slumps out of the car. He helps him stagger to his feet.   
  
“Hey,” Peter mummers, clutching at his body to steady himself. He feels so strong, still and solid.   
  
“I’m going to kill you,” Mr. Stark warns, but then he brings an arm around him, inviting him to lean on him. Peter does, collapsing against his side, dropping his head to his shoulder, gratefully allowing himself to be guided through the building’s lobby — the doorman, probably another recipient of a particularly extravagant tip, pointedly looks the other way — and into what he knows is a private elevator.   
  
He glances at Mr. Stark as the elevator makes its journey to the top of the building, but it’s impossible to read his expression behind the glasses. He’s warm, though. Peter likes that. What he doesn’t like is the scent of alcohol that clings to his skin, standing out against a backdrop of cologne and sweat.   
  
The elevator opens on an impressive apartment. Peter’s only been here once before, for a Christmas party. Then, it had been crowded, overflowing with people and cheerful decorations which, in retrospect, must’ve been Ms. Potts’ doing. Now it feels too big, cold and unlived in.   
  
Mr. Stark quickly steers him to the couch. Peter collapses into the leather, glad to sit. There’s already a first aid kit out on the coffee table; next to it is a glass of something dark. He feels the cushion dip next to him, and then cool hands are on his side, fumbling around the webbing there.   
  
“You webbed your bullet wound?” Mr. Stark’s voice is shaking, but it’s hard to tell if it’s from anger or concern.   
  
Frustrated at not knowing what he’s thinking, Peter snatches away the sunglasses. The eyes that blink back at him, startled, are watery and rimmed with red.   
  
“What did you mean,  _again_?” he bursts out. Exhausted, in pain, apartment revolving, he’s not willing to wait. He needs an explanation.   
  
The Adam’s apple in Mr. Stark’s throat bobs. He drops his hands, but his eyes don’t leave Peter’s face. “This isn’t how I wanted to have this conversation.”  
  
And suddenly Peter can’t breathe. Because that’s basically confirmation of the fear that’s been biting at the back of his mind for the last half hour, the impossible possibility.  
  
“What conversation, sir?” he asks, even though he’s not entirely sure he wants to know the answer.   
  
“Peter. I—fuck. I don’t know how to do this.” Mr. Stark brushes a hand across his face and then reaches for the glass, but Peter grabs his arm, an echo of stopping him from hitting the robber again. And then, because he’s pretty sure he’s not going to be able to survive whatever he’s about to be told without something to ground him, and because  _Mr. Stark kissed him_ and that feels like it gives him permission to be a little bold, he loosens his grip, grazing his knuckles down his arm until their hands meet.   
  
“It’s okay,” he says, turning so they’re facing each other completely. “I want to know.”  
  
Mr. Stark inhales deeply, then lets the air out in a shuddering sigh.

“We didn’t defeat Thanos,” he says after a pause. It’s oddly monotone, as if he’s trying so hard to get the words out he can’t find the energy to inflect them with emotion. “Not the first time. He did it. He killed half the universe. Including you.”  
  
His free hand moves to Peter’s neck, wrist resting heavy on his shoulder, fingers curling into his hair. It feels almost possessive.   
  
It makes Peter want to cry.  
  
“My nightmares, are those...?” He’s answered with a nod. “Oh.”  
  
“Yeah,” Mr. Stark agrees. “Very long story short, we managed to undo it.”  
  
“How?” Peter asks, even though he doesn’t really care. Or — he does. He will. But not right now.   
  
“It’s complicated. I can explain it later. It involved time travel — yeah, I know, kinda cool, except that it was too awful to be cool.” His lips twitch into the saddest smile Peter has ever seen. “The point is, we did it, and we’re the only ones who know. The only ones who remember.”   
  
His hand is trembling, hard. Peter squeezes it, trying to be reassuring, doing his best to seem like he’s okay, because he’s pretty sure that’s what Mr. Stark needs him to be right now. He brings his free hand to Mr. Stark’s cheek; his eyes go wide at the gesture, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”   
  
“How could I? I didn’t want—” He closes his eyes, leaning into Peter’s touch. “I just wanted you to go back to normal.”  
  
“Hate to say it, sir, but that didn’t work out very well.” He means it as a bad attempt at humor, but when Mr. Stark’s eyes flutter open he looks miserable.   
  
“I know. I know, I fucked it up. I always—” He takes another shuddering breath, unsuccessfully blanking back tears. “I should’ve left you alone, but I was just so happy to have you back.”  
  
Peter feels his own lip quiver, heart leaping with something like hope, an impossible emotion to be feeling right now, next to the rest of it. He wants to ask why  _his_  return, of all the people who must’ve died, made Mr. Stark so happy, and if it has something to do with why he kissed him earlier, but that doesn’t feel right. So instead he asks, “How long?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“How long did it take?” He wipes at the stray tears rolling down Mr. Stark’s cheeks. “How long was I dead?”  
  
“Ah.” Mr. Stark plays with the hair at Peter’s neck, seemingly lost in thought, maybe deciding if he wants to answer. Finally, he whispers, “Years. Three years, forty-three days to be precise. At least by my subjective timeline.”  
  
Oh.   
  
_Oh._  
  
Fuck. That’s a long time.

And he counted the days.   
  
“You counted the days,” Peter says out loud, his stupid, ridiculous heart continuing to clutch with hope. Longing.   
  
“Yeah,” Mr. Stark agrees. He brings their intertwined hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss on Peter’s knuckles. “Counted the days without you, kid.”   
  
When their eyes meet, Peter sees his longing reflected back at him, and without letting himself think about it, he kisses him.   
  
It’s gentle this time, deep and soft. Mr. Stark scoots forward until their bodies press together, lips parting just enough to let Peter’s tongue flick in. He tastes like whiskey. Peter tries to pull him closer, but the sudden movement sends a cramp across his chest, and, okay, this is probably a bad idea, the wrong moment. But he’s not going to be the one to stop it. 

Then Mr. Stark’s hand skims down his side, hitting the webbing, and he freezes.

“Fuck,” he says. “We should take care of that.”  
  
But he doesn’t say:  _we shouldn’t do this_. And he brushes his fingers across Peter’s jaw, observing him carefully, affectionately, before turning to the first aid kit.

Suddenly, hope doesn’t seem so crazy. 

***

Mr. Stark decides “taking care of that” means sending Peter to shower — in his private bathroom, which has a fancy showerhead that adjusts to a nice, soft sprinkle — where he manages to pull off the webbing. When he comes out he finds spare sweats and a t-shirt with the logo of some band he’s never heard of laying out for him on the giant king bed. The shirt’s too big, but it smells like Mr. Stark as he pulls it on, and that immediately makes everything a little better. 

When he shuffles back into the living room, Mr. Stark is waiting on the couch with a granola bar and the first aid kit. Peter joins him, and he hands him the bar with an apologetic smile.   
  
“I don’t exactly keep a stocked kitchen here, but it feels like you should eat,” he explains.   
  
Peter wolfs the bar down; he hadn’t realized how hungry he was. While he chews, Mr. Stark’s hands make their way to his side, gently lifting the shirt. He winces at what he sees.   
  
“Bullet seems to have gone straight through my side,” Peter tells him. He’d figured that out in the shower. “I don’t think it hit anything important or I’d be in worse shape.” The wound is, in fact, already starting to heal, skin closing. Moving doesn’t hurt quite so much, either.   
  
“Mmhmm,” Mr. Stark agrees, setting to work cleaning the wound with an intensity that makes Peter’s heart start racing again, so hard he barely notices the sting of iodine. Now that he’s letting himself think about it, he realizes he really, really likes being the center of that piercing gaze, holding the full attention of the most brilliant person he knows.   
  
And those fingers working with precision, moving from cleaning to wrapping the injury in gauze, stopping now and them to rub a comforting circle on unscathed patches of skin —  
  
Yeah, he really likes those, too.   
  
Finally, Mr. Stark pats his side, just above the freshly applied bandages. “All set.” His voice is thick and wet, and when Peter looks over, he’s shocked to see tears streaming down his face.   
  
Wordlessly, he wraps his arms around the man who spent three years fighting to get him back, guiding his head to his shoulder as he sobs, shaking uncontrollably against him. Peter thinks he understands, finally. He buries his face in his thick hair, breathing in the scent of him.   
  
“I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Stark,” he whispers. “I promise.”  
  
They stay like that for a long, long time.

***

Eventually, Mr. Stark stops crying. He looks almost sheepish when he finally sits back up, and the first thing he does is mutter, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”   
  
In response, Peter kisses him: deep, confident, determined to get his point across.  
  
“Don’t apologize,” he says, pulling back. “This won’t work if you don’t let me take care of you, too.”   
  
“‘This,’ huh?” Mr. Stark replies, but Peter notices that he doesn’t argue. In fact, the lines of tension around his eyes loosen as he breaks into a smile. He stands, extending a hand. Peter takes it, allowing himself to be hauled to standing. “We’re going to need to explain why you’re not at home tomorrow morning to your aunt.”  
  
Peter returns the smile. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

***

They kiss a little more, tender and careful because of Peter’s injuries, and then Mr. Stark insists they go to bed, because, “I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure people who get beat half to death need their beauty sleep, even super-people.”   
  
And so they slip into the king sized bed and lay side-by-side, facing each other, inches apart, clutching their hands together between their chests. Mr. Stark’s eyes don’t leave his.

It might, if possible, be better than the kissing.   
  
“It won’t be easy,” Mr. Stark says after a minute. “I’m not an easy person.”  
  
“I don’t care,” Peter replies without hesitation. Because he doesn’t. His life left easy behind so long ago he doesn’t even remember what the concept means.   
  
“You should.” Mr. Stark leans forward and places a kiss on his forehead. “I love that you don’t, but you should.”  
  
Peter shrugs. That’s probably true. But he’s seen how bad it can get, and the worst part was not understanding. Not being in it with him. Not knowing how to help. Now he knows how to help.

Besides, he’s not exactly the easiest person, either.   
  
“Tell me about what happened,” he says suddenly. At Mr. Stark’s surprised expression, he explains, “We both know I’m not actually going to fall asleep right now. So tell me about what happened. I want to know.”  
  
Mr. Stark observes him carefully for a moment and then, maybe, hopefully, getting his point, he launches into his story. He brings a hand to Peter’s hair, stroking it gently as he talks, words wrapping him safe, lulling him softly toward sleep.

“See,” Peter murmurs before he drifts off completely. “Told you. Goes both ways.”

“Yeah,” he hears Mr. Stark whisper. “I guess it does.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback is loved and appreciated. Your kudos bring me joy, and I cherish every single comment so much.


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